


Last Christmas

by marysutherland



Series: Blame Jeremy Bentham [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221b, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:05:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy epilogue to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/275299/chapters/436185">Sacrifices</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Originally wriiten as comment fic for [Wordstring's Christmas meme](http://wordstrings.livejournal.com/4198.html?thread=552038#t552038)

Last Christmas Sherlock hadn't been at the midnight service with his mother, and he'd missed it. There was an odd satisfaction in the extreme lack of change. Even the music was so similar that he could slot back into the scratch choir with ease, he barely needed the afternoon's rehearsal. His mind started to catalogue the subtle changes in the congregation: the gaps where people had died or divorced, the marriages and remarriages, the new arrivals. And the ones who he calculated wouldn't make it till next Christmas. There was one massive change though: almost invisible next to the bulk of Mycroft was the unremarkable but incongruous figure of John.

Last Christmas he and John had been in Dublin, which should have been fun. Except John had been pissed-off at getting banned from Ryanair for having sex in the aeroplane – as if it was Sherlock's fault they'd got caught. John had turned out to be a lot less fun in bed than Sherlock had expected. It was a good job he'd realised that, even if John hadn't. He'd been surprised that John had gone back to Mycroft, but he'd never understood Mycroft's appeal to John in the first place. And Mycroft was still going round like a love-struck idiot, they both were. Not just ludicrous, he thought, but deeply, deeply boring.

***

Last Christmas had been one of the worst points of Mycroft's life. Sitting in the midnight service, after Sherlock had smashed up his relationship with John for a cheap thrill. Then going back to the photographs of Sherlock and John together in Dublin, and his mother's delight.

He'd burnt his copy of the photo on Boxing Day, sneaking out into the garden, frantically lighting up matches. It had caught at last, John's face disappearing in the flames and turning to ashes, like Mycroft's hopes. He still didn't know what had happened to his mother's copy.

But that didn't matter any more. Now there was a photo of John and him on Mummy's mantelpiece. If she suspected what had happened, she had kept quiet, welcoming John whole-heartedly. And John was beside him tonight, unremarkable and incongruous, and utterly wonderful. He still found it hard to believe that he had chosen Mycroft over the glorious fallen angel that was Sherlock. Sherlock the chorister, looking godly and at ease tonight. Unlike John.

Mycroft wasn't sure if John's spiritual upbringing had been by Catholics, atheists, or wolves, but Anglicanism was clearly completely foreign territory. He needed a crash-course, Mycroft decided, if his plan and Mummy's was going to work. Because before next Christmas he was determined that their civil partnership was going to be blessed.


End file.
